Jake Leg Stompers Web

Limber Louie

Limber Louie, An Introduction. Street walkin’ down Beale, blood-red sun fading on the Mississippi, you turn east, your shoes worn and heavy with damp mud, the air thick with flies, mosquitoes, and the stench of failed sewers. Nobody knows you. Leaning on your cane in the warm dark, wondering where the Southern cross the dog, you feel the indolent eyes of vipers, whores, and crapshooters staring out at you from lamp-lit basement rooms. Nobody knows you. He steps out from the shadow of a clothesline then, a thin, disheveled slip of a man, dragging something along behind him—something heavy and twisted, like jointed stonework, and you realize it’s his left leg he’s pulling in paralyzed tow. You venture a confused, contorted smile. “Limber Louie,” he says, sweeping hat-in-hand ceremoniously through the still air by way of introduction. “Drink?” he asks, and soon enough your throat tightens around a tall, sweet swallow of pure grain alcohol. Louie used to drink the Jake—until it took his leg, anyway. That was two years ago, during the Great Flood. He can still find the best speakeasies though; the ones with plenty of good hooch, where the flashy hookers purr and prowl, and the blues are hot enough to burn you, brain and soul. Underground, aromas of gin and whiskey float daintily on smoky clouds of sweat and strain. There isn’t much light; your muscles ache to mime the swaying shadows of dancing legs and stomping feet, and as your belly warms to the whiskey, you aren’t crouched in a dank, dirty Beale Street cellar anymore; you’re sittin’ on top of the world.

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